


Welcome Home, John

by slashscribe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:29:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1925061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashscribe/pseuds/slashscribe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John moves back to 221B, he thinks <i>he’s</i> the broken one, but after a while, it becomes clear that he might not be correct.  Set post-S3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome Home, John

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoy the fic!  
> There is a wonderful podfic available by the amazing [aranel_parmadil](http://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil) [here](archiveofourown.org/works/1948371/)! Please check it out!
> 
> You can also read this fic in Czech, translated by [squire](http://archiveofourown.org/users/squire/pseuds/squire), who is an absolutely amazing writer, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3773098)!

When John moves back to 221B, he thinks _he’s_ the broken one. He’s the one whose life has been pulled out from underneath him twice, first with Sherlock, and now with Mary and the child that was never his from the start.

 

Sometimes, though, he’s not so sure. He and Sherlock are both different people now, after all that’s happened. Sherlock is less volatile, less prone to sulking and outbursts. John moves with a weariness he finds too similar to old men for his liking, but he can’t find the energy to change it.

 

But some things are the same, like the feeling of his worn but loved chair surrounding him as he listens to the comforting sounds of Sherlock’s violin, sipping on tea, pretending to read the paper while in truth, he is listening with all of his being to the sounds of Sherlock; the sounds of home.

 

\--

 

John trudges down the stairs in his socked feet one morning, covering a yawn with his hand. He hears Sherlock moving around in the kitchen and he wearily scrubs a hand over his face. He doesn’t have the energy to fight Sherlock and his experiments for kitchen space, but he knows it’s inevitable.

 

He resigns himself to at least finding enough room to make a cup of tea and stealing a piece of bread; he’s too tired for much else. When he goes to the kitchen, though, he stops in the entryway, his hand falling to his side and his mouth opening and closing with no sound coming out.

 

“John,” Sherlock greets, barely glancing at him. He seems uncomfortable, if the way he’s avoiding eye contact means anything.

 

“Sherlock,” John says. His voice comes out rough and sleep-worn. “You-”

 

“With you sleeping so late, _someone_ has to make breakfast,” Sherlock says. Where there once would have been bite in his voice, there is now a feeble attempt at it; he sounds as if he's trying to make things the way they once were but falling short.

 

John’s breath catches for just a second as he watches Sherlock cook breakfast, more than enough for both of them. It’s 7 AM, hardly late. Sherlock isn’t looking at him, and John thinks he must be acting more depressed than he realizes if _Sherlock_ is attempting to make him feel better.

 

“Right,” John says. “Maybe I should set an alarm.”

 

Sherlock quirks a small, pleased smile, but he doesn’t look at John. As John sits down at the table, though, he can’t stop looking at Sherlock.

 

\--

 

John comes home from work early. His last few patients have canceled, and he can’t stand the way everyone there _looks_ at him, knowing he’s divorced, knowing there’s no baby, knowing Mary’s not there, but not knowing the details. He thinks maybe he should find a new job.

 

He takes the stairs slowly, as usual, and opens the door. 221B is quiet these days; neither of them gives in to dramatics anymore, not after what’s happened. There was a time when he’d expect to see Sherlock shooting the walls, but he knows that’s not what he’ll find now, not with Sherlock being _courteous_ in a way that is unsettling to say the least; John doesn’t like to think that his mood is so obvious that even Sherlock has picked up on it.

 

When he opens the door, though, Sherlock is sitting on the couch, his knees tucked up to his chin. His head rests sideways on top and his eyes are closed. He’s facing the window; perhaps he’d been looking outside. John thinks he must have fallen asleep. He can’t help but notice how skinny Sherlock is, how small he manages to look in this position. His face is smoothed in relaxation, and in their absence, John realizes how many new lines are there when he’s awake.

 

“You’re home early,” Sherlock suddenly murmurs, not moving from where he sits, keeping his eyes closed.

 

John startles, feeling like he’s been caught doing something wrong. “I thought you were sleeping,” he says.

 

“Mind palace,” Sherlock says vaguely.

 

“Right,” John says, mind flashing back to Appledore, to Sherlock committing murder for _Mary_ , to all the things he doesn’t want to think about. He ignores it. “Last few patients canceled,” he adds, his voice tense.

 

Sherlock looks up and narrows his eyes, assessing John carefully. “I see,” he says, and John wonders exactly how much he means.

 

\--

 

It’s pouring outside, and John holds his umbrella as close to his head as possible, hunching his shoulders to become as small as possible underneath it, his sodden grocery bag dripping onto his already wet feet. He’s on his way home from work – he still hasn’t mustered up the energy to quit his job – and he has stopped at the grocery store, knowing they have very little to eat in the flat.

 

He could take a taxi, he knows, but he doesn’t feel like it. Somehow, the rain feels fitting, and he pushes through, almost back to the flat. When he finally gets there, he shakes his umbrella off and heads in. The only part of his body that isn’t soaked is his hair, which has been sheltered enough by his umbrella to avoid the sideways rain coming down in sheets.

 

He trudges up the stairs and drips all over them, already dreading the mopping up he’ll have to do once he’s dried off. He pauses outside the door. He hears music, but it’s not Sherlock. Instead, it’s a recording, something classical he doesn’t know. That’s rare for Sherlock; John wonders if perhaps they have a visitor, and he sighs as he pushes open the door.

 

It’s only Sherlock, though, and John stops and gapes in the doorway when he sees that Sherlock is in the kitchen putting groceries away. He’s just reaching up to put a tin of beans in the cabinet when he turns, looking over his shoulder at John. “Hello, John,” he says, as if everything he’s doing is perfectly normal.

 

John is still gaping, and Sherlock turns to face him completely, giving him a shrewd look that John knows means he’s deducing.

 

“Sherlock, did you go to the grocery store?” John asks.

 

“I think the answer to that is fairly obvious,” he says, looking at John in disappointment.

 

“You _never_ go to the grocery store,” John replies, standing in place and dripping all over the floor.

 

Sherlock shrugs and turns back to his groceries, but his back is stiff. “I’ve been shopping for myself for a while now. I got used to it,” he says.

 

But as John watches, he sees Sherlock put away John’s favorite jam, and something twists in his chest. He goes to the kitchen, suddenly angry, and puts his bag on the table with a loud squelch.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “Grocery shopping. Humans do require basic sustenance, John. As a doctor, I’d think you-”

 

“No,” John interrupts, staring at his back, clenching his hand at his side. “You’re being – _considerate_. To be honest, it’s a bit weird.”

 

Sherlock stops moving. His hands go still around a bag of bread. There’s silence between them; the inappropriately fast-moving Baroque music coming from the living room seems deafening. “John, I’m not a considerate man,” Sherlock finally says. His voice is low.

 

John rolls his eyes. “Right, that’s why you don’t have to do all this, making breakfast and bringing me tea and all. You haven’t even left any body parts in the fridge.”

 

“I’d think you’d be pleased,” Sherlock says. He still doesn’t turn around, and his voice is polite and controlled.

 

“I appreciate it, Sherlock, of course I do. But you don’t have to – I know I’m in a bit of a state, yeah? But you don’t have to walk on eggshells,” John says. He wants normalcy; he wants Sherlock to drive him round the twist all hours of the day; he wants _fire_.

 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a moment. He turns, finally, looking at John in annoyance. “I’m not walking on eggshells,” he says. “The eggs are in the fridge, quite whole.”

 

John gapes at him for a moment before his mind catches up to what Sherlock has said. “Oh, for god’s-”

 

“You know I hate meaningless expressions,” Sherlock adds. His lip is quirked up in a familiar smirk, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “And for the record, I’m being neither nice nor considerate. I’m never nice, John, you should know that. I’m quite selfish.”

 

“And that’s why you bought my favorite jam? Because you’re selfish?” John asks, gesturing towards the cabinet.

 

Sherlock turns from him, going back to his groceries. “Obviously,” he says, but his voice lacks bite.

 

\--

 

John hadn’t understood Sherlock when he’d lived with him the first time, not really. There were times he felt he came close, but Sherlock always managed to surprise him. This time around, though, his understanding of Sherlock is elusive at best. Sometimes, things feel normal – Sherlock shouts at crap telly while John watches him in amusement; Sherlock leaves things for Mrs. Hudson to clean up and complain about.

 

But there’s something missing, something between them that feels _wrong_ , and John doesn’t know what it is. It’s as if there’s a side of Sherlock he keeps locked away from John, and John doesn’t understand.

 

But they’re working a case now, and it feels good to be with Sherlock this way, just like the old days. Lestrade has called them in for the first time in ages, and Sherlock had beamed at John in the flat as he told him to get his coat and hurry.

 

It had been wonderful, really, examining the crime scene. Sherlock had seemed to think out loud more than usual, explaining things to John more frequently than he’d done before. He’d seemed surprised and pleased every time John replied.

 

Now, though, they are standing in an alley, breathing heavily. They’d gone to the suspect’s office, intending to casually ask around for some information, but when the suspect showed up unexpectedly and caught sight of their faces, his eyebrows shot up in recognition and Sherlock and John ran when he started to give chase. The suspect chased them down staircases and through hallways until they got outside, and Sherlock took a roundabout route to bring he and John to the alley where they stand now.

 

They can hear the suspect just outside, clearly having caught up to them, and Sherlock and John exchange a glance of warning, their bodies fraught with tension. Sherlock shoots John an alarmed glance, though, when he hears a second set of footsteps catch up to the first. He holds up 2 fingers in warning, and John nods, having heard the same thing.

 

When the two men come into the alley, John and Sherlock are ready.   The fight breaks out quickly, and John is fighting with a fervor he hasn’t felt in ages. His body is responding faster than ever, and it’s like the lethargy that’s plagued him for months now has evaporated. He feels alive, his blood is pumping through his veins, and he notices that Sherlock has already taken out the suspect’s accomplice when the suspect, currently gripping John’s left forearm, pulls out a knife.

 

John distantly sees Sherlock’s eyes widen, hears Sherlock’s voice form his name, stumbles when Sherlock shoves him out of the way and comes between him and the suspect. Sherlock is moving with a fury and intent John’s only seen once, when he shot Magnussen. Sherlock looks similar now, his eyes wild, his face contorted in rage, and he doesn’t even seem to notice when the knife gets him in the side, but John does, and John starts to intervene, to help him, but Sherlock pushes him away and doesn’t stop fighting. He finally knocks out the suspect in rage, and the man’s body crumples to the ground just as the sound of sirens starts in the distance.

 

“John,” Sherlock says anxiously as soon as the suspect is down, turning to John, his eyes wild and the fallen suspect forgotten. “John, are you hurt?” His eyes are moving frantically over John’s body, and he steps closer, patting him down.

 

John pushes his hands away. “I’m not bloody hurt, you idiot, _you_ are, would you stop and sit down-”

 

“That doesn’t _matter_!” Sherlock interrupts viciously. His voice cracks, and his hands are shaking. “That doesn’t _matter_ , John!” He’s shouting now, gesticulating wildly.

 

John stares for a moment. He has the distinct feeling that he’s missed something important. He’s having a paradigm shift, of sorts, only he can’t be sure exactly what it is that he’s come to realize. All he knows is that something in his heart is aching.

 

He steps forward and holds Sherlock by the forearms, stilling his frantic movements. Sherlock’s breath is fast and hitching, and he’s still staring at John with something in his eyes John’s only seen on rare occasions. John feels the urge to cry and he doesn’t understand it; things are moving out of his control.

 

“Sherlock,” he says, his voice raw. “It _does_ matter. It does. You’re hurt. Sit down.” His voice cracks, and he swallows. “Just – sit, _please_ ,” he says.

 

Sherlock looks like a man fighting for control. John doesn’t understand it. He’s the broken one, isn’t he? But Sherlock’s lip is twisting and there’s something in his face John doesn’t recognize. Sherlock doesn’t even seem to notice the blood coming from his side. It doesn’t seem serious; probably just stitches, but John knows it must be painful.

 

Sherlock shakes his head, breathing fast. “He had a knife, he almost – John, are you alright?”

 

“Sherlock,” he repeats, voice firm, squeezing Sherlock’s forearms. The sirens are getting closer. “I told you, I’m _fine_ , would you stop it?”

 

Sherlock takes a breath. It’s shaky and thin, higher than usual. “I’m sorry,” he says. His voice is breaking, and John can’t stand it. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. He has the distinct idea Sherlock is coming apart in his hands and he doesn’t _understand_. He can’t understand where this is coming from.

 

“Sherlock, there’s nothing to-”

 

Sherlock shakes his head frantically, breath still fast. John wonders if Sherlock’s about to have a panic attack and he wishes the stupid git would just sit _down_.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice desperate. John is horrified when he sees a sheen of tears building in Sherlock’s eyes. “John, I’m sorry,” he says again. “I’m so sorry. I can’t-”

 

John doesn’t know what to do. He’s never seen Sherlock like this, and he has no idea what the fuck he’s apologizing for. He hears a door slam from somewhere outside the alley, and he knows the cavalry has arrived. He doesn’t want Sherlock to cry. He doesn’t know what’s happening. In desperation, he pulls Sherlock close and hugs him, hand on the back of Sherlock’s head, pressing it down into John’s neck, holding him there for what seems like ages but in reality is hardly ten seconds. Sherlock’s gasping against his neck, and John closes his eyes, his mind whirring in overdrive, before letting go, holding Sherlock at arm’s length again.

 

“It’s alright,” he says, looking at Sherlock in concern. Sherlock seems more in control somehow, and he’s closed his eyes, not looking at John. “The ambulance is here. Let’s go.”

 

Sherlock nods. He takes a deep breath. The sound of the sirens, something in the air, seems to bring him back to himself. When he opens his eyes, they’re clear, but he stares at John for a moment and John is startled by the intensity. Then Lestrade is there, breaking the moment, asking what the hell is going on, and everything comes back to life.

 

\--

 

The taxi ride back to 221B is uncomfortable. Sherlock is slumped in his seat, gazing out the window, ignoring John. John glances at him now and again, but he knows Sherlock is probably watching his reflection in the window, so he keeps it to a minimum. He’s _worried_ , though, unsure about Sherlock’s reaction at the crime scene.

 

There is a strange tension between them, born of things unsaid and too many emotions revealed. They never have tension like this, and yet John is aware of exactly how far his body is from Sherlock’s, of the fact that Sherlock’s coat is just a hair’s width away from his thigh, of the sound of Sherlock’s breathing in the silence of the cab.

 

He doesn’t know why it feels this way; he just knows that something is happening he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t know why Sherlock was apologizing, or why Sherlock is behaving so strangely. There’s so much he doesn’t know that it’s overwhelming.

 

When they arrive at Baker Street, Sherlock hustles out of the cab, leaving John to pay. John’s not angry; in fact, it’s somewhat of a relief. He pays the cabbie and trails behind, walking slowly. Sherlock’s already in the apartment by the time John is starting up the stairs.

 

John trudges up as usual, but his heart is pounding. He doesn’t know what to expect. When he opens the door, Sherlock is in the kitchen, making tea. He doesn’t talk or look up when John enters.

 

“Sherlock,” John says. “Sit down; you’ve just gotten nine stitches. I’ll make the bloody tea.” Sherlock doesn’t reply, and John sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. He goes to the kitchen and stands beside Sherlock.

 

Sherlock’s hands are shaking, just a little. John takes the teapot from him and is surprised when Sherlock lets him. He finishes filling it with water and sets it on the stovetop before finally looking at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock isn’t looking at him. His eyes are closed, and he’s looking the opposite direction.

 

John swallows, unsure. “Sherlock,” he says. “Would you bloody look at me?”

 

Sherlock complies. John gets the distinct feeling Sherlock would comply with anything he asked. He doesn’t understand. Sherlock’s looking at him plaintively. He looks _tired_ , and John frowns.

 

“Sherlock,” he says again. “Would you – what’s going on?”

 

Sherlock gives a faint smile. It’s nothing but a twist of lips. His eyes don’t move; the lines in his face don’t shift into joy. John doesn’t like it. “Nothing,” Sherlock replies. “I’m just being selfish, as usual. Forgive me, John.”

 

“You’re not selfish,” John says. A small part of him is surprised at how intensely he means it. “Why would you even say that?”

 

“John,” Sherlock says. “When I –” He pauses, rethinks his words. This does nothing to make John less worried. “I caused you great pain,” Sherlock finally says. “At that time, I thought only of my own pain, and nothing of yours. And when I realized -” He stops, shakes his head. “Sometimes, we have unrealistic expectations. And then, when we realize exactly how unrealistic they are, we are forced to – _reevaluate_. I – I caused you great pain, and it won’t happen again. I know I – we talked about this once, but you – you deserve so much better.”

 

John stares at him for a moment. He’s not sure exactly what Sherlock is talking about, but suddenly it clicks. Flashes of Sherlock are going through his mind – Sherlock pulling him out of a fire, Sherlock apologizing to him on his knees next to a bomb, Sherlock folding countless cloth napkins for his wedding, Sherlock dealing with _people_ and _parties_ to be John’s best man, Sherlock composing songs for him, Sherlock smiling at him after his wedding in such a strange way and then disappearing from the crowd, Sherlock _shooting Magnussen_ , Sherlock buying his jam–

 

“Sherlock,” John says, moments and facts shifting into something that makes sense in his mind and makes his body buzz with nervous energy. He wonders if this is what it’s like for Sherlock when he’s deducing. “You– everything you’ve done since you came back – no, since you bloody jumped, it’s been for me, hasn’t it? For my happiness. You care about me that much. You’re trying – you’re trying to make it up to me.”

 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but he closes his eyes and his shoulders droop.

 

“But you – you _cock_. You don’t know what makes me happy. You don’t,” John says, surprised by the vehemence in his voice. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John in such confusion that John almost feels bad for a moment, but he continues.

 

“You – _you_ make me happy, Sherlock, _god_ you do. But not when you’re sacrificing yourself for me all the time. You don’t – oh Christ, you’ve done so much for me. You don’t have to do anything else.”

 

It’s hitting him now - Sherlock faking his death, Sherlock coming back, Sherlock making him breakfast, _everything_ – it hits him full force that it was all for him. He’s reeling, something twisting inside of him.

 

“I’m not sacrificing myself,” Sherlock says. He sounds miserable. “I’m _not_ , John. I – I did terrible things to you, and I know I’ve ruined – I’ll do anything to keep-”

 

He stops, unable to continue. John swallows and reaches out, hesitating for just a moment before settling his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s alright,” he says.

 

Sherlock shakes his head, his lips trembling. John can’t stand to see it, he _can’t_ , but he can’t do Sherlock the dishonor of looking away.

 

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice hoarse. “It’s not.”

 

“Of course it is,” John says. “God, Sherlock, of _course_ it is. You jumped to bloody save my _life_ , and I never even -”

 

He stops, regains control. Regret is filling him in hot and uncomfortable flashes, and he doesn’t know how to express himself.

 

“I never even properly thanked you. I just moved on with Mary and expected you to fit right in, and here I was, grieving you, feeling so _alone_ , but you-”

 

Again, he stops. He’s bad at this, at talking about emotions, but he can see that Sherlock’s in need, _has_ been in need, so he fights through it. “I felt so alone, Sherlock. But you really were.”

 

Sherlock shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing his lips together. His chin quivers. John can’t stand to see it. His heart is clenching in his chest, and he feels like he’s going to cry. Sherlock is not supposed to show emotion like this, he’s just _not_. If John stops and thinks, though, he knows that Sherlock’s been showing it since he came back, but John has been too wrapped up in his side of things to notice until it moved past Sherlock’s subtle tells and got to this point.

 

He shifts his hand up to cup the back of Sherlock’s head, his thumb resting along Sherlock’s jaw, his fingers curling loosely around his neck. Sherlock’s hair is soft against his skin, and Sherlock takes a shuddering breath.

 

“You’re not alone now,” John says. “Not anymore.”

 

Sherlock’s lips twist and part in a gasping breath he seems horrified to have produced. It sounds like the beginning of a sob, but John doesn't want to classify it as such, not when it’s coming from _Sherlock_. John pulls him forward, like he had at the crime scene, and holds him close, keeping his fingers threaded into his hair. Sherlock is stiff for a moment.

 

John closes his eyes. His heart is pounding, and he knows Sherlock can feel it, but he doesn’t care. “You’re all I have,” he says. “And all I need.”

 

Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath and brings his arms around John, his hands fisting into John’s shirt. John tilts his head up and presses it into Sherlock’s neck, and Sherlock presses his cheek against the side of John’s head. He’s shaking against John, and John pulls him closer.

 

“It’s alright,” John says again. “Sherlock, really, it’s alright.”

 

It hits him, what all of this means. What it means for _Sherlock_ , the self-declared sociopath, to do all of this, to try so hard just for John, to push himself to this point of emotional upheaval. It hits him, and he presses his forehead closer to Sherlock’s skin.

 

“Sherlock,” he murmurs, squeezing his neck just a little bit, time slowing down around him as everything becomes clear. “You love me.”

 

Sherlock’s breath hitches and he freezes.

 

“It’s alright,” John whispers. “You – you do, right?”

 

There’s no response for a moment, and John is hyperaware of how close they’re standing, of his fingers against Sherlock’s skin, of Sherlock’s hands twisting in his shirt, and he holds his breath, waiting, until Sherlock nods against John’s head. John pulls away, keeping his arms around Sherlock but looking up at him. Sherlock’s pressing his lips closed, and he looks at John in something like desperation, like something is bubbling beneath his skin and clawing its way out, like he’s trying so hard to contain it but he can’t. His eyes are wide and he’s shaking. John swallows, his heart pounding, and rubs his thumb along Sherlock’s jaw.

 

Sherlock’s eyes close and he leans his head into the touch. He lets out a shuddering breath and something deep in John’s stomach twists.

 

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says again, his voice strained. “I can’t – I tried not to, John. I really did. I just want you to be happy.” He sounds miserable and anxious. “I -”

 

John stops him by shifting his hand, pressing his thumb over Sherlock’s lips. They’re soft and moist under his skin, and his heart pounds more. Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at him. There is something wild and scared in Sherlock’s eyes, but they’re flickering rapidly over John’s face, looking for some kind of clue.

 

“I love you,” John says before he can stop himself. “God, I love you.” The words are surprisingly easy to say standing so close to Sherlock, his thumb pressed against Sherlock’s lips, feeling Sherlock’s body tremble with repressed emotion. “You’re a bloody idiot sometimes, but I love you.”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes again, squeezes them shut as if he can’t bear to hear what John is saying. John rubs his thumb gingerly along Sherlock’s cheekbone, his temple. He leans up and presses a soft, gentle kiss against Sherlock’s jaw, just a brush of his lips against Sherlock’s skin.

 

Sherlock shivers when John’s lips brush his skin, and then he opens his eyes, looking down at John. His eyes are shining with moisture again, and John swallows. John’s hand is trembling now where it lies against Sherlock’s skin, but he gently presses against the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulling Sherlock’s head down just a little bit.

 

He leans up, going onto his toes, tilting his head upwards. Their eyes meet for just a second, and Sherlock’s widen when he realizes what’s going to happen. John smiles the tiniest bit, feels Sherlock’s breath against his lips, and presses their lips together. It’s light at first; chaste. Sherlock’s lips are soft and supple against his own. He holds their mouths together for a moment then pulls away, just a little. He presses a small kiss to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and looks up at him. Sherlock’s breath is coming faster and his hands settle against John’s waist, pulling him closer despite the fear in his eyes. John can feel how fast Sherlock’s heart is beating, and he pulls his head down again.

 

This time, he holds their lips together and then opens his mouth, lets warm breath pass between them, feels Sherlock’s lips part against his. It’s thrilling, feeling Sherlock’s lips against his like this, and he runs his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, fingers winding through curls. The only sounds are of their breaths, soft gasps passed between their mouths, and John lets his tongue slide against the inside of Sherlock’s upper lip. Sherlock gasps into the kiss, his head dropping lower. John’s feet go flat against the floor and Sherlock brings one hand up to cup John’s head. The feel of Sherlock’s long, elegant hand against his neck is intoxicating, and he can’t help the breathy gasp he makes when Sherlock’s tongue presses against his. His insides feel like they are on fire; his every nerve ending is on alert; his entire body is craving this connection.

 

He tilts his jaw a bit and runs his free hand along Sherlock’s back, pulling Sherlock closer, enjoying the feel of sinewy muscle under his hands. Sherlock moans helplessly into the kiss, and John pulls him closer still. They can’t get any closer; it’s not possible.

 

Suddenly, though, a loud whistling fills the kitchen and they break apart, hearts beating fast, breath coming in shaky gasps. They share a moment of charged, shocked eye contact before John blinks, then remembers the tea, and steps away for a moment to turn the heat off and stop the whistling. His body feels shaky and cold in Sherlock’s absence, and the world feels like it’s shifting around him. The kitchen feels foreign with this newly awakened _thing_ blossoming between them, and he feels unsettled.

 

But when he turns back to Sherlock and catches his eye, Sherlock’s hair is mussed from John’s fingers, and his lips are red and shiny. He looks so gorgeous that John can’t help but smile even though he feels off-kilter and surprised. He steps back into Sherlock’s space, and Sherlock doesn’t hesitate. He settles his hands on John’s waist and drops his head down to press his forehead against John’s, closing his eyes, taking deep breaths. The fingers of his left hand are trailing up and down John’s spine, tracing it slowly, while the thumb of his right hand is rubbing circles into John’s skin.

 

John keeps his eyes open, though they’re half closed in pleasure. He feels like he’s melting under Sherlock’s hands, and he eagerly takes in Sherlock’s face from so close. He reaches up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair again, and Sherlock leans into his hand once more. He seems starved for touch, and John resolves to fix that.

 

“Sherlock,” he says, his lips curling into a smile. He feels a rush of tenderness for this man who has done so _much_ for him, who has been suffering for him, who has been patiently enduring his unrequited love, thinking it was some kind of punishment, thinking it was something he’d never get back.

 

Sherlock opens his eyes and looks at John. From this close, John can count Sherlock’s eyelashes, can see every speck of color in his eyes, every pore in his skin. It’s mesmerizing, it really is.

 

“John,” Sherlock replies. He looks sad. “You don’t have to-”

 

“Shut up,” John says. “Don’t talk.”

 

John is relieved to see a small smile form on Sherlock’s face. His eyes just barely crinkle, but it’s a start, and John can’t help but smile in return.

 

“John, you really-”

 

“Shut up,” John repeats. “I really love you, even though it seems like a bloody mad thing to do, and we’re going to figure it out and it will be fine. Alright?”

 

Sherlock manages a small, soft smile. He closes his eyes again, though, and his smile fades. “I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “I never thought you-”

 

“It’s alright,” John says. He tilts his head just enough to press a kiss against the corner of Sherlock’s mouth again. Their noses bump along the way, and he smiles, making them bump once more. Sherlock wrinkles his nose in annoyance, and John laughs.

 

“We’ll figure it out,” John says again. “Alright?”

 

“Alright,” Sherlock says after a moment. He seems unwilling to let go of John, and that’s okay. John shifts, relaxing against Sherlock, mindful of his side, letting his head press into Sherlock’s neck.

 

“You should rest,” John says. “Go to bed and let your stitches heal.”

 

“Come with me?” Sherlock asks. He sounds hesitant and hopeful, unsure if this is allowed.

 

John lifts his head up and looks at Sherlock seriously, doing his best to keep his expression open and gentle. He doesn’t want Sherlock to feel any hesitation; he wants Sherlock to know that his suffering is over. “Always,” he promises.

 

Sherlock’s shoulders relax and finally, a smile breaks out on his face. “Perfect,” he says. Something flashes over his face, some emotions he seems hesitant to give voice to, before he shakes his head and smiles, a soft, genuine smile that makes John’s grow in response. “After all,” he adds, “I’d be lost without my blogger.”

 

John laughs at the unexpected response and the memory, leaning against Sherlock and chuckling, and Sherlock smiles, his hands twisting into John’s shirt, pulling him flush against him.

 

When he came back to 221B, John had been positive he was the broken one, but now, with Sherlock’s surprisingly fragile heart in his hands, he realizes how wrong he was. He presses a chaste kiss against Sherlock’s collarbone and revels in the feel of Sherlock shivering against him in response.

 

They’re silent for a moment, and then Sherlock’s hands tighten on John’s waist. John glances up at him, and Sherlock smiles. “Welcome home, John.”

 

And just like that, he knows they’ve been rebuilt, yet again. He beams at Sherlock. “It’s so good to be back.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I would love to hear your thoughts, as usual, especially on characterization. 
> 
> I was worried that Sherlock might seem out of character in this, but I think that in S3, we see him go through an extreme emotional awakening - his awareness, for example, of what loneliness is when he's talking to Mycroft, how desperately he misses John, how he realizes he'd misjudged how John would take his return. I think there's only so long Sherlock would be able to hold these feelings in before the desperation would get the better of him.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think about that! Thank you! :)
> 
> and if you want, feel free to follow me on tumblr - I've only had it for like a week but I'm getting addicted. It's a dangerous thing. I'm slashscribe there, too. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Welcome Home, John](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1948371) by [aranel_parmadil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aranel_parmadil/pseuds/aranel_parmadil)




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